


Wheel of Westeros Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Five

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [28]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, White Walkers, Wights, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27549100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Queen Sansa faces crushing loneliness and the harsh reality of her rule among false loves. Jaime, Arya and Gendry try a new weapon against the army of the dead, and unleash full on war with the Others. (Buried in work...so this is all I could eke out in time - hope there aren't too many errors.)
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Jaime Lannister & Arya Stark, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark, Podrick Payne & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Series: Wheel of Westeros [28]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Comments: 16
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter One

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Four: Rise of Sansa Part Five**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Sansa, Queen of Tears

The weather was turning…Sansa could feel it even within the spring-warmed hall of Winterfell. Thankfully, the greenhouses were all erected and the seeds planted, and a huge amount of corn, beans, and olive oil had been delivered via Jon Snow, who had shared Daenerys Targaryen’s gift in exchange for signing the peace treaty. Sansa had promised to prohibit any attacks on the Freefolk who took up residence in the North. Most of the North had moved to the Neck or the Riverlands in order to avoid the onslaught of winter and the army of wights and Others that might soon come with it. Sansa still hadn’t seen a wight, but many of her people had. _Could it not have been a man in a costume,_ she had asked them? _Certainly not_ , had been the answer.

But Sansa wasn’t sure…especially if Arya was involved. Arya had performed for many months with a mummer’s troupe, and may have killed for the Faceless Men. If she killed all those men of the City Watch in King’s Landing, she could dress up and pretend to be a dead man convincingly enough. Her loyalty was obviously with Jon, and surely she would do anything to support his wall of fire, and as Petyr suggested, his plan to empty Northern strongholds for use by the Freefolk. Arya had turned white with rage the day Sansa arrived and claimed Winterfell. Sansa had even gone to her sister’s chambers alone to try and speak reason to her. She found the door ajar, but when she said her sister’s name, it was slammed in her face. The next day Arya was gone, just like Jon and Rickon and Bran, and Sansa was utterly alone.

She stirred her stew, moving hunks of carrot and salt pork from one side of the bowl to the other. Since the delivery of beans, molasses and corn Jon coordinated before his departure, they had been eating bean stew almost every day with sweet but gritty cornbread. There was also pickled fish and pickled beets, as well as dried figs and olives by the barrel, which Sansa found delightful, but her appetite was still very poor.

“I mislike this treating with the Targaryen as well,” the Greatjon Umber was saying. “I prefer not to be beholden to Mad King’s daughter.”

“From what I hear, the Targaryen queen can spare a few olives,” Sansa said, holding her cup steady as a tiny serving girl, who couldn’t be past eight, clumsily poured wine into it. She was growing so very tired of this conversation that she felt as if she might cry. Of course, the Greatjon and Crowfood were worried about the Wildling igloos darkening the hills surrounding the Last Hearth – as if the old drunk would be alive to return when spring came anyway.

“You needn’t worry my lord,” Harrold said, patting Sansa’s hand gently. “I doubt the Targaryen girl has any idea that her goods were shared with us.”

However, Sansa had already drafted a letter of thanks to the Dragon Queen. It couldn’t hurt to be courteous…especially to someone with three full grown dragons. These crusty old lords wouldn’t understand that. Actually, Sansa sometimes fantasized about having tea with Daenerys Targaryen, hosting her at Winterfell once the castle was strong again. Though some said she was a brutal, sluttish creature who drank babies’ blood and enjoyed burning nobles with dragonfire before stealing their wealth, others said she was a perfect lady and the very image of her mother Rhaella as a queen and a beauty. Sansa could knit her a nightcap to wear (for it was also rumored she was bald) and then ask her all about the Free Cities and the slaves she was freeing over blueberry tea and lemon cakes.

But it was fancy, nothing more. Winterfell would never be whole before winter truly hit, which meant it might never be the castle it was. There would be no reason whatsoever for a wealthy Eastern queen to come to Winterfell. All Sansa had to talk to anymore were her lady’s maids. She had no family here, other than Harrold, who was becoming more and more arrogant since becoming king, refusing to accept the role of consort. In his mind, they ruled together, and Sansa had to admit that there were decisions for which she needed him. Harrold had been raised to be the heir to a kingdom – he knew about defenses and grain inventories and building supply chains. Sansa knew people, and cloth, and cream. Certainly the milk wouldn’t go bad under her watch, Harrold joked. Sansa dreamed of hanging him.

At least he no longer raped or hit her. He begged and sobbed at her sometimes, but her refusal wasn’t met as before. Still, Sansa knew that Harrold strayed – with serving girls, with milkmaids and even young ladies like Wynafryd and Wylla Manderly. She could find no proof other than a certain smell he took to bed when he finally joined her at night. She hired little girls or old women for as many positions as possible, though she didn’t know whether that made any difference. She wondered if it even made a difference that she gave herself to him, which she did often out of pure, pathetic loneliness. Mya Stone had left a jar full of dried moon tea for her, hidden in her knitting basket. The girl didn’t know that Petyr Baelish would never allow Sansa to have a baby as long as Harrold was alive. Randa had finally given a full account of the conspiracy as she knew it. Petyr would eliminate Harrold one way or the other, but in the meantime, an heir could be an issue. Sure enough, there had been no pregnancy – just a terrible bout of diarrhea now and then accompanied by an early, heavy period.

It was the mirror that showed her for sure – not that Petyr was going to get rid of Harrold. That he told her himself when they were alone in what had been Bran’s chambers. _Soon, my love, you will be free of this marriage. I have made arrangements that will allow us to be together, finally, as husband and wife_. Sansa wanted to tell him it was too late. She knew what he’d done to her father – the mirror had told her and Randa managed to confirm it. Randa and her exquisite bosoms had learned a great deal from Petyr’s bodyguards: Byron and Shad and that awful Morg. The only one she hadn’t been able to open up was Lothor, whose lips stayed together tight as a drum. As Randa had it, his heart belonged to Mya Stone. _Wouldn’t even venture a feel…and they were staring right at him_[1], Randa had exclaimed. Randa could be very course and often had to be reprimanded. How silly at any rate to think a knight like Lothor would fall for a bastard girl.

Sansa felt badly enough for Ser Gendry. It was cruel of Arya to tease him, but no matter. Soon he would march back to the Inn at the Crossroads with a load of grain, wood, and gold as Sansa had promised – and with Harrold. He was going to Riverrun to keep the castle, and Uncle Brynden the Blackfish was coming to Winterfell to serve on Sansa’s council. Sansa didn’t want to begin a family until after the winter ended, she had reasoned. She could keep drinking moon tea, but… _I will miss you terribly, but I think this is for the best_ , Harrold had said. Of course he did. Riverrun was in spitting distance of any number of brothels, and Harrold could fertilize the world if he wished, like a giant milkweed pod spreading bastard seeds to all forks of the Trident.[2] What wasn’t clear was how this translated to Petyr and Sansa being able to wed. Initially, she feared that Harrold would provoke Jon or somehow break the treaty in a way that would force her bastard brother’s sword. However, Harrold remained afraid of Jon – as did many of the Northern Lords who whispered terrible, bizarre rumors about him.

Sansa, for one, actually missed her half-brother – oddities and all. She looked forward to having family around her again, though the Blackfish was cold and gruff – not much for conversation. At least she could trust him. It seemed now that the only ones about whom she could trust were Brienne of Tarth, who was noble and brave, but as boring as they come, and Podrick Payne, who stumbled on every third word. The rest were men-at-arms who wouldn’t look her in the eye, and a husband who desired her body but gave only lies to her face. The Hound, on the other hand, was truthful to a fault, and when he was near, Sansa felt warm and safe. However, since she had come back under the fire of Rh’llor, it seemed he was avoiding her. The thought of it made her want to weep. Her people had gotten used to her occasionally bursting into tears at random moments. They all knew about her mother, and that her siblings had abandoned her, and now her husband would too. The Manderlys had offered to follow Jon and fetch Rickon, but Sansa didn’t want Jon or his new family hurt. Part of her thought too that Rickon was safer there. _We must keep him moving…he must never stay in one place too long_ , Sansa had told the fat old lord, who had looked relieved anyway.

“Are you quite all right, my love,” Harrold asked. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

“You must eat well, your grace,” Petyr said, like a mosquito in her other ear. “When the winter really and truly comes, you will want to be fat, like a beaver in hibernation!”

_I’d like to put the two of you into hibernation_. “Brienne?”

“Yes your grace?” Brienne answered dutifully. She also seemed misty from time to time, and Sansa figured she too was lonely. She was so ugly that there were no suitors to be had, and brave and storied as she was, it was hard for her to fit in with the male knights. Sansa wished she could help her, but she wasn’t sure how one helped the likes of Brienne the Brave.

“Where is lord Podrick? Has he gone to bed already?” Sansa asked.

“I must say I lost track of him, but it’s early for someone who sleeps as badly as Podrick, your grace,” Brienne said. “Shall I fetch him for you?”

Sansa noticed too that the Manderly girls were missing. Wylla was difficult to miss with her bright green hair, and Wynafryd was so tall she towered over other girls. “No that’s quite all right,” Sansa said, and stood.

Everyone in the hall stood with her, and she said her goodnight to Winterfell. Harrold offered to come up to bed with her, but Sansa told him she meant to take the air for a bit before going to bed, and she would just as soon have Brienne escort her. Of course, Harrold had no complaint, since that freed him to flirt his way through every maid in the hall. Brienne rose with Sansa, and they walked out together into the courtyard. A light snow had fallen, covering the ground in a sparkling carpet. Three sets of tracks led over to the guest keep, and Sansa could see one window dimly lit in a chamber that they had been using to store the Dragon Queen’s barrels of figs and olives.

“Who do you suppose is hiding out in there?” Sansa asked Brienne.

“I’ve no idea…I can’t imagine anyone dare steal figs so brazenly,” said Brienne.

“Let’s have a look shall we?”

“Your grace?”

When they got to the hall, they could hear girls giggling and then suddenly shushing, and the light from beneath the door of the chamber flickered. Brienne and Sansa looked at each other.

“Podrick!” Brienne whispered, turning a little pink. “I’m sorry, your grace. He’s coming into his manhood…the smell in our chambers at times! I will talk to him.”

“No, it’s all right. You wait here. I’ll handle this.”

Brienne obeyed, though she looked mystified, and stayed put while Sansa silently pushed open the chamber door. Just as she suspected, there sat Podrick Payne with the Manderly sisters on either side of him, dangerously close. Wylla’s hands were in places they definitely ought not have been, and Pod’s face was buried in Wynafryd’s hair. When Sansa closed the door hard behind her, all three of them practically jumped into the air. Frantically, they stood, bowing and curtseying and sputtering apologies.

 _At least it’s Pod and not my husband._ “Well. I am very disappointed in you ladies,” Sansa said. “I think your lady mother will be very disappointed as well.”

The girls’ faces turned white with horror. “Oh please, your grace. Must you tell her?” Wynafryd said.

“Of course she must you fool!” Wylla said, beginning to cry.

“Wylla is right…What sort of queen would I be to keep such a thing from Lady Leona? Not to mention allow you to treat my castle like a brothel!”

“Oh your grace we never meant…we’d never…” Wynafryd sniffled.

“It…it was my fault…uh, your grace,” Pod said. “I convinced them to come… I mean to go…to…”

“Please your grace!” Wylla knelt suddenly before Sansa and hung her head. “I’m mortified that I’ve insulted you my queen, but please…if my mother finds out…”

Sansa waited a few seconds, then gave a heavy sigh. “All right, all right. I won’t tell your lady mother this time…”

“Oh thank you your grace, thank you!”

“But _you_ ought make better decisions! Now go on…before someone notices you’ve gone missing.”

The girls squealed a string of thank yous before departing, and Pod continued to stand awkwardly next to the barrel he had been sitting on. Sansa shut the door again after the girls and walked toward him with her arms crossed over her chest.

“I’m so very sorry your grace, I…”

“Quiet Podrick and listen to me. I simply cannot allow this behavior in my castle – I’m sure you understand that.”

“Of course, your grace.”

“Those are the ladies of the House Manderly…a very important subject of mine – the wardens of White Harbor. Furthermore, Lady Leona and that fat man would take any excuse to send those girls to a sept, or marry them to some toothless old goat. Do you mean to give them that excuse?”

“Oh no…I never…I mean I’d never tell anyone. I won’t say a word, I promise, m..my queen!”

“I hope I can trust your word on that. I hope I can trust your absolute silence.”

“Yes, your grace. You can trust it. I mean, me. You can trust me.”

“We’ll see about that.”

She left him standing there then amid figs and olives, and a confused-looking Brienne walked Sansa to her bedchamber. When she saw through the window that Brienne had marched out to the guards keep, snapping at a cowering Pod as she went, Sansa sat upon her hope chest and cried. She cried until her head hurt, and then she stood up, opened the chest and reached inside for the hand mirror where it lay beneath piles of Catelyn Stark’s old shifts and nightgowns. When she felt the handle, bumpy with periwinkles and slightly warm as always, she pulled it out and held it up to her face. Euron’s dream mirror had talked to her more than anyone in her court. Every time it stopped her tears, but left her more empty. Every time she considered breaking it to shards against the bedpost, and every time she kissed it instead, and then put it away, lovingly and gently, until it whispered to her again.

Chapter 2: Kingslayer

They arrived at the Shadow Tower as the sky was turning rosy, the dying sun bleeding onto the Gorge. For months, camps of Wildlings had found themselves in nightly standoffs with the wights who edged closer and closer. Denys Mallister, acting Lord Commander of what remained of the Night’s Watch, had treated with them for safe passage over the Wall. The last contingent of naysayers – Jon Snow’s enemies and those who wanted no peace with the Freefolk – had formed their own faction and taken Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. They called themselves the Proud Men, and had released and taken with them a number of Castle Black’s prisoners. Mallister didn’t know what they were up to and currently didn’t care, he told them. He had greater enemies to face, with which Jon Snow would agree. Lady Arya Stark looked very troubled, Jaime noticed, but she said nothing. After a quick tour of the battlements, the mission was underway.

Jaime had spent several weeks winning the trust of a thousand Northmen, Wildlings, and Easterners with dusky skin or silver hair as they were put to work building Jon Snow’s self-feeding fire wall. Daenerys Targaryen hadn’t brought her dragons, but she had sent several tons of food, building materials, and gold as well as enough labor to fill positions at the Wall and get a good portion of the fire wall built. It already reached the wooden area south of the fort called Stone Door, and with the new plans delivered and the men paid, would reach Castle Black in no time. Jaime had been placed in charge of the escort guard moving supplies to and fro where needed, included the obsidian delivered from Dragonstone. That was currently being made into spearheads, daggers and the occasional arrowhead, and it could even be fashioned into a clumsy sword with a piece large enough. The waste could be traded south, as the volcanic glass could also be used to jewelry and other trinkets. Wildling woods witches, it was said, could do strange magic with it – the same magic was said to have brought Jon Snow back from the dead after mutineers had tried to assassinate him. Jaime didn’t know whether to believe that. Since he set foot in the North, he’d seen plenty to make him doubt everything he knew about what was real and what wasn’t.

Jaime took a battalion of black brothers with him to the Tower, and he traveled with Arya Stark and her lady-lieutenant Mya Stone, Sir Gendry Waters, and a hulking beast of a man who came in the interest of young Griff. Sansa Stark had claimed Jon’s crown, Arya said, and she now held most of the North with the exception of the three houses, and of course the Freefolk. Jon was no longer called King in the North, but instead was referred to as “chieftain” of Bear Island, the Freefolk and the Crannogmen. Gendry and Mya were half brother and sister who had only just met, and the awkward fondness between them was heartwarming. What was obviously between Waters and Lady Stark was something else entirely. All three treated Jaime with polite contempt, which was to be expected. Griff’s man Franklyn Flowers was downright jolly in comparison. His appearance had gotten Jaime thinking about Rhaegar’s ghost.

Just three weeks after arriving at the construction site, Jaime had been drawn to the notion of being a soldier again. He had only one hand, his left, but at the Wall it seemed many had similar impediments, but were still allowed to serve. He had even gone on a brief ranging in the Gift, looking for potential slaving operations, though it did seem Jon and his troops had stamped that out. Still, when they returned to Castle Black, Jaime took his vows and became a brother of the Night’s Watch. That night, he felt as he felt when he was first knighted. However, his sleep had been fitful, and he rose to find a fresh snow falling into his open window. There was a figure standing in the moonlight that shone in, snowflakes swirling and glittering about its head. _My son. My youngest one. Have you seen him?_ A mantle of silver showed Jaime that it was Rhaegar, haunting him again – and now his son’s knight was in his company. Perhaps he had said his vows too soon. Yet, the spirit of the silver prince had not appeared again since.

More and more wights had been seeping into the area west of the Gorge every day. Once the Gorge began to fill with ice and snow, they would begin to cross it, little by little. Then only Jon Snow’s wall of fire could prevent them from spilling out into all of Westeros. A large horde of them had gathered not far from the Shadow Tower, waiting. The plan was to burn them, one and all, with a contraption designed by Ser Gendry that could use wildfire in a way that was more precise and efficient than shooting flaming arrows or catapulting pots. The arrows were often snuffed out in the snow, and firing pots into the Gorge ran the risk of losing them completely and wasting what little they had to light the wall. With Ser Gendry’s “siphon” one could fire a stream of white hot death precisely at a line of wights. Two of the contraptions were built, and each took two men to operate: one to pump air over a small brazier filled with heated oil and wildfire, and the other to hold and aim the bronze tube from which the wildfire would stream once the heated oil was pressurized. The tube’s nozzle swiveled, so that a large area might be doused. Both sets of men had to shield their bodies and faces with iron to protect them from the intense heat[3].

It was determined that one siphon would be manned by Gendry and Frank Flowers, and another by a couple of black brothers named Garret Greenspear and Luke of Longtown. Reinforcements including Lord Commander Mallister as well as Jaime and Lady Arya were standing by in case the worst happened. There was the possibility of the brazier exploding, in which case the men wielding the siphons would go along with the wights. Arya pretended indifference when night fell and Gendry strapped on his shields, but she chewed her lip and fidgeted constantly with her very impressive dagger. See Ser Gendry, and as much so the way he behaved around Lady Arya, made thoughts of Brienne of Tarth flood into Jaime’s mind. He missed that beast, more than he missed his own family he realized. Thinking about her either made him laugh, or filled his chest with a tight, painful longing.

When it was dark, the horde lumbered forth, silent and horrible, in stages of rot from bloated and gray to skeletal. They did rot, it seemed, eventually. However, the cold made the process too slow to depend on. At any rate, light and warmth diminished them, and only fire ended them. Loaded up, the four men descended from the Wall and advanced toward the horde. It was difficult to see them, as a swirling snow had begun to fall. “I can’t see anything,” Arya said. “I’m going down closer.” Jaime protested, but in typical form, Arya ignored him. He quickly grabbed a quiver of dragonglass arrows and a bow, and followed after her. On the ground, Jaime watched Arya clamber up a soldier pine and perch in a high branch. He didn’t try to follow her up the tree, but instead took a position behind a snow-covered boulder. Ser Gendry and Frank stood at their marks a distance from the two black brothers with their siphon and waited for the wights to notice them. It was unknown whether the things actually saw anything at all, or if their eyes were directed by something else hiding deep in the frozen forest.

It was only a minute before the wights seemed to target the men and increase their pace dramatically. In an instant, Gendry and Garrett began pumping frantically. From his vantage point, Jaime could see the glow of the braziers as the heat built quickly, and then, like a glowing, deadly worm, the bright green fire flowed forth from the tubes, meeting the horde of wights with a terrible din. The creatures fell instantly, crumbling like so many piles of dust, over and over until the pile was nearly as tall as the men. Then suddenly, they stopped coming. The stream of wildfire sputtered and halted, and as it did, a horn sounded loudly from the Wall, one searing blast followed by another, then another. Jaime knew what that meant, and apparently so did Arya, who screamed, _Gendry…run!_

Then Jaime saw them. The remaining wights had stopped moving, and they parted. In the gap rode three figures of crystalline horror. The cold became suddenly so bitter that Jaime could feel his breath freezing solid in his beard. The Others rode upon giant beasts resembling spiders, with eight knobby legs and eight glowing blue eyes. The riders shimmered like clear ice, and though they seemed to have limbs like men, their movement was nothing like anything alive Jaime had ever known. It reminded him of the way water moved when poured from a bucket or sluicing over a water wheel. The unnatural glare from their blue eyes filled him with icy dread. Suddenly, Arya landed next to him on her feet like a cat, and she sprung into a run with her dagger in hand. Jaime shouted, _My lady…stop!_ But she did not hear him. He ran after her with Widow’s Wail drawn, in time to see an ice spider devouring Garrett while its rider sent Luke’s head flying into the ether. Another enemy was fast upon the heels of Gendry and Frank, who had thrown off their siphon and shield and run like mad. Jaime tossed his quiver high in the air, and Gendry caught it mid-run.

Then Jaime zig-zagged and made his way behind one of the spiders, evading the rider’s vision, and swung the sword against its back legs hoping to cripple it. Instead, the thing exploded into a million shards of ice, leaving its riders standing alone in a mist of cold. It turned slowly and saw Jaime, a look of malice shining through its face that glowed at once bluish-white as new snow and clear, reflecting the green of burning wights. _Kingslayer…run!_ He heard Arya Stark’s voice from several yards away where she and the two men were being pursued by not one but two enemies. Jaime broke into a run in the other direction, hoping to draw off the White Walker whose mount he had destroyed. _Valyrian steel_ , he remembered. According to Jon Snow, it worked like dragonglass to destroy them. Jaime looked behind him, and in that moment, his foot caught an exposed root beneath the snow and he fell hard upon his face. The Other grasped its long pale sword and swung, but Jaime held forth his own sword to meet it. For a moment, he thought he read a look of puzzlement on its shimmering face. Jaime used a move that the nimble lady Stark had taught him, getting himself to his feet without his hands. The Walker swung again and Jaime ducked just before it could slice through his armor like butter. He gave one round swing, and the White Walker shattered as his mount had done.

Momentarily dazed, Jaime looked over to see the Night’s Watch descending upon the two Others that remained. He watched amazed as Gendry and Frank lifted Arya Stark and tossed her, like a melon onto a cart, up toward the Other atop his ride. From a height she fell upon the enemy with her dagger, destroying him with a sound like breaking glass. Then she was atop the great ice spider, in a panic without its master. With another blow from the dagger, the spider was eliminated. The last enemy had also been destroyed, no doubt by some dragonglass weapon wielded by one black brother or another, but not before several had been cut to ribbons by either the Other’s cold sword or the pale stinger of his mount. By the time Jaime joined them, the process of frantically gathering up the dead men had begun. There was no time to lose. Jaime grabbed poor Luke of Longtown and slung him over his shoulder. By the time they made it to the Wall, Jaime’s body was an inferno of ache.

In the confusion, he hadn’t noticed the Lord Commander Mallister was gravely wounded. His men called for the maester, but the old man shook his head. As Jaime arrived at his side, he could see the Commander’s watch would soon be ended. His long white beard was marred with red, and gore splashed his bald pate like a gruesome wig. He turned to Jaime and clutched the black cloak that had replaced his Lannister crimson and gold.

“Kingslayer,” he rasped, the light fading from his blue-grey eyes. “The war has begun truly now. The next time, they will not make it so easy.”

He took hold of the silver eagle that clasped his cloak, and pulled it until it came loose. “We have made our move and there is no going back, and this foe is beyond any of us.”

Taking Jaime’s good hand, he pried open the fingers and pushed the eagle clasp into Jaime’s gloved palm. “Save the Watch, Kingslayer.”

“Lord Commander?” Jaime asked.

With a nod, the old man breathed his last.

[1] Simon, David. _The Wire_. Season 2, Episode

[2] French, Dawn and Jennifer Saunders. _Absolutely Fabulous_ , Season

[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greek_fire


	2. Continued:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya brings a warning to Winterfell, as her relationship with her sister the queen heals slowly. Sansa says goodbye to that which is most dangerous in her life.

Chapter 3: Arya

Arya made it to Winterfell with Mya Stone and Ser Gendry late one evening as a fluffy but wet snow was falling around them. They were so red-faced with cold and so tired that they spoke to no one before retiring all three to Arya’s chambers. Sansa’s ladies the Vance sisters attended to their fires personally and would surely tell the queen the next morning that they had all slept in the same bed under the same furs, Arya in the middle. Liane Vance yanked off all three pairs of boots without a word, and gave Mya’s toes a good rubbing, _else two of them will fall clean off,_ she said. Mya whimpered and kicked a bit when the blood returned to them, but otherwise no sound was made other than that of the crackling fire, and the hissing of their wet clothes hung next to it. Arya warmed quickly enough, but there was nary an inch between her and Ser Gendry, and no doubt everyone in the castle would know about that before noontide the next day. Arya couldn’t care less, however. The dark cold filled her dreams with visions of the dead and their masters.

The next morning, hot oat porridge with currants and milk was sent up, and not long after that, two pairs of freshly knitted wool socks for Mya. Sansa expressed her disapproval of Arya and Gendry as only she would: by filling Gendry’s bed with the thickest and softest furs and piling extra wood next to its hearth – in a room that couldn’t possibly be farther from Arya’s own chambers. Still, their squabble seemed so meaningless now. It barely seemed worth addressing – so Arya didn’t speak of it. In fact, the sisters hardly spoke at all. When Sansa appeared among the folk of the castle, it was always in an official capacity. Arya noticed that she spent most of her time in her room, and always looked as though she’d been crying. She noticed her husband King Harrold drank heavily and that Mya avoided him intensely. Mya finally confessed that Harrold had touched her on more than one occasion before they left Winterfell the last time, and might have done more had she not been reassigned to Arya. _Don’t tell Gendry,_ Mya said. Arya swore but considered silently what she might accomplish wearing a face as handsome as Harrold’s.

Uncle Brynden the Blackfish arrived with his knights three days later, before which time Arya didn’t say much to Sansa at all, even when the queen announced (not necessarily to Arya but to her ‘audience’) that she would give the Vance sisters over to Arya to attend her as lady’s maids. Sansa probably expected some objection or scoffing, but Arya had only said, _very well and thank you, your grace_ , before excusing herself in order to return to her duties. These mainly consisted of observing the progress of the rebuilding effort and then writing to Jon about it. She and Gendry introduced the armorer to the dragonglass weaponry they had brought: how to mount the arrowheads and spearheads, the best way to wield the daggers. _They look at me like I’m mad,_ Gendry told Arya. He was right – they saw the dragonglass as material for necklaces and brooches, not weapons. They wouldn’t understand unless she made them understand.

With the rest of the time, she and Gendry sparred with Brienne of Tarth and Podrick Payne. Brienne not-so-casually asked after the Kingslayer, and gaped when Arya told her he was in command of the Shadow Tower. _Jaime has the Watch?_ Brienne asked, almost dropping her sword and allowing Arya to pin her. _There isn’t really a Watch – not anymore_ , she told her. Often, Arya went down to the crypts and stood silently before the resting place of their father, his stone image having been carved on Jon’s orders immediately upon their return. She tried to draw strength for what had to be done from Ned’s Stark’s spirit, and wished badly that she could speak to him again. He had always known what to say. His statue didn’t look like him, and Arya realized sadly that there were very few alive that remember what Ned Stark looked like at all. [1] Jon, Arya and Sansa – that was really it. Now, instead of long talks with her father, she had long ale-drinking binges with the Hound. Not the same, but still surprisingly comforting.

Uncle Brynden’s arrival was the first evening on which Arya actually dined in the hall with Sansa and her lords. The Blackfish greeted her warmly as he knew how, but his long arms were heavy and his voice stern. _He sees me as a traitor,_ Arya realized sadly. But when the old man smiled, she wasn’t sure. _Your brother Jon is a great warrior,_ he told her. _I only wish things had been different._ Arya nodded, understanding that the Blackfish had no idea of how dire the threat Jon fought was. No idea that Jon was something beyond a good soldier. He was something else now and so was she. Just a couple of months earlier, she wouldn’t have been able to stand the sight of her sister, much less stay in her castle…but now she pitied Sansa. Sansa in her lovely blue gowns of silk and velvet and her silvery crowns living in a castle made of tears. What in the world would she do when the White Walkers came to those gates? Nothing Sansa had ever done could make Arya wish that terror on her sister.

Midway through the dinner of turnip stew, bean mush with molasses, and yellow cornbread, Arya stood up. For the first time ever, she wore the gown Sansa had made for her after she first arrived months earlier. It fit perfectly, and was more practical that she thought it would be. The pattern was in a fashion more like what ladies of the Riverlands wore, with the higher waistline and the long sleeves that puffed out at the ends. It was black samite trimmed with velvet, and the bodice was embroidered with giant weirwood leaves scarlet thread. Sansa was a marvel at embroidery. She was to needle and thread as Syrio Forel had been to a sword. Mya wasn’t much for hair-braiding, however, so Arya’s hair was twisted tightly on top of her head in a way that made her scalp itch. When she called for attention, the hall hushed very quickly – though the whispers about her petered off more slowly. Arya knew her loyalty to Jon, and whatever was between her and Gendry, was bound to invite suspicion and rumor. There was a time when she would have been bothered by such trifles.

“My lords and ladies...I wish to speak of a matter of dire importance,” she began. “As you know, I have been to the Wall to observe the progress of King Jon’s fire barrier. During this excursion, I and my companions came face to face with a threat like nothing any of us have seen. I speak not only of the wights with which many of us have become familiar…I speak of the Others, the White Walkers.”

At this point the hall hummed with a mixture of disbelief and shock. King Harrold’s face was scornful, Arya observed. He’d had another crown made…this one of pewter vines twisted around glass feathers, and bigger than the previous one. Arya would have liked to point out that the glass Daenerys Targaryen sent was not meant for that purpose. He clutched the queen’s hand as if in apology for having to listen to such nonsense. He was so arrogant that he didn’t care who knew how he felt. Littlefinger’s look was inscrutable in comparison, for his was a different sort of arrogance. Arya ignored both of them. She spoke loudly and firmly, declaring that dragonglass was being provided to use against their enemies, but it must be wielded with great skill and in great numbers. Winterfell must prepare for a future onslaught, which meant all able hands must be trained starting immediately – old and young, male and female.

Mors Umber, the old turncloak, stood and protested. “Do you expect me to put a sword in my granddaughter’s hand?”

Arya answered calmly, “Jon Snow, lately your prince, put a sword in my hand when I was nine. My brother has seen to the construction of a means of holding these enemies off, which currently preserves your life and mine, but this fire can only burn so long. The Wall, furthermore, is only as strong as the men who stand upon it, and the Night’s Watch is broken. It broke the day my brother’s men betrayed and murdered him, and this castle will do the same if you do not heed Jon’s warnings now.”

She turned to Sansa then, and looked her sister deep in the eyes. _I know you’re not stupid. I know you can hear me, please._ “In a matter of weeks, a caravan of laborers – some from the East, will be arriving to help finish rebuilding the outer defenses, so that our people can prepare to fight. They have been paid and bring their own food supplies. It’s up to your grace to do what needs to be done to save Winterfell from death. I must go south, for I have pledged myself to the Hollow Hill brotherhood and to furthering our brother’s cause south. You and our uncle, Lord Tully, have the trust of your people. I beg you to use it wisely.”

Amid the predictable murmuring of objections to taking aid from foreigners and in particular the Targaryen queen, Sansa stood. “I can see no reason why our people should not be prepared to face our enemies, whatever it takes…” She eyed the Greatjon and the other lords who cringed and whispered, Jon Snow’s name flitting from many of their unworthy lips. “My lords, Arya is my sister…my blood. If she or my brother Jon meant us harm, they would not be telling us to arm and strengthen ourselves. They would be telling us to put away our swords and rest. If this caravan was meant to harm us, then they wouldn’t tell us to expect them. We are of the North – distrustful of outsiders by nature, but Arya Stark and Jon Snow are not outsiders. Ned Stark’s blood flows in their veins as it does mine.”

Arya said no more that night, though she was glad her sister did the right thing for once. It made her remember their mother, and the past roared forth and dashed against her heart like a tidal wave. All at once she wished she had her family back…even for an hour.

“You spoke like a princess tonight. Like a queen, even,” Gendry said when they said their goodnights before going to bed. “I’m right proud of you.”

As he kissed her forehead, and she rested her head on his massive chest, Arya remembered she still had a family. It looked different, that was all. That night, she stayed in the guards’ keep with Gendry, not giving a damn what anyone had to say about it.

Chapter 4: Sansa

The evening before Harrold departed for the Riverlands, a feast was to be held in the Great Hall of Winterfell. Arya still seemed to be avoiding Sansa, but she offered to oversee the cooking and baking, especially since so many of the scullions and cooks were either too young or too old to be trusted with a meal of any importance. For once, Sansa’s subjects wouldn’t dine on beans and corn bread. The menu would include a nice thick venison stew with onion and turnips, baked apples, soft white bread with a buttery crust, and pan-roasted salmon and bass with rosemary and lemon. At some point during the planning, Thoros of Myr informed the queen that he too would be traveling back to the Crossroads Inn to support and advise the faction known as the Hollow Hill brotherhood. Lady Melisandre, a powerful priestess formerly in the service of Lord Stannis Baratheon, would come to the North to advise both the Queen in the North and Chieftain Snow at their disposal. Sansa wished Thoros well, and bade him sincerely to be careful. She had grown to like the tipsy red priest, and worried that he had crossed her lost mother one time too many for such a move to be safe.

For dessert, Arya was making fig tarts and lemon cakes, the former using the Dragon Queen’s foreign figs and the latter made just for her sister. Petyr told Sansa to observe Arya in the kitchen carefully, to see that she didn’t poison one of the cakes with that bottle she had hidden in one of the cupboards. They spoke in the same giant larder in which she had caught Podrick Payne with the Manderly sisters several weeks earlier, a frequent indignity that Sansa would not miss when it was no longer necessary.

“What cause of her brother’s is Lady Arya furthering among the Hollow Hill men, and what is the worst thing she might do in the service of that cause? A skilled assassin, who’s made no secret of her allegiance with a rebel king?” Petyr whispered to her.

_He thinks me as paranoid as Cersei and as pliable as my father_ , Sansa thought, but said, “I ought to speak with her at any rate. In the meantime, I hope you understand that tonight, Harrold and I…”

“Of course, my love. Do what you must. It won’t be long before the kingdoms are yours and mine…” He placed a warm hand on her cheek and kissed her tenderly. “ _All the kingdoms._ You’ll see…it’s all coming together.”

“How’s that, darling? Gods if we could just speak freely!”

“Patience, my queen. Go and talk with your sister.”

In the kitchens, Arya was scurrying about in a rough spun frock and apron, ordering about the pre-adolescent scullions with their dirty faces. A couple of bent old women were busy measuring out flour and butter while the young ones squeezed lemons and macerated dried figs. They all curtsied low with the queen appeared, wearing her day gown of grey linen and black lace. Sansa bid them leave her alone with the princess to talk. A platter of olives and cheese was just outside for purpose of their refreshment (and distraction.) Shad would let them back in when the queen had concluded their business. Sansa sat upon a stool still warmed by some old scullion’s butt and apologized to Arya for interrupting the work.

“Honestly, I might do better without the lot of them,” Arya said. “They’re all missing front teeth, have you noticed? Some baby teeth and some not.”

“I know…I had to replace the women Jon hired.”

Arya wiped flour from her hands onto her apron, and finally looked Sansa in the eyes. “Harrold should hang for his infidelity.”

“If he were a woman, and I were a man, it would be that simple, wouldn’t it?”

Arya sighed. “What can I do for you, your grace.” Her tone was icy.

“You needn’t call me that when we’re alone, you know.”

“That’s most magnanimous of you.”

“I know you don’t hate me. If you did, you wouldn’t have come here.”

“I came at Jon’s insistence. The Others will come at the first opportunity, and Jon doesn’t trust Lord Baelish. Nor do I.”

“And neither of you trust me to look after myself, is that it?”

“Have you considered that Littlefinger may have murdered our aunt? What does he want? What is he doing here?”

It was as Sansa thought. Arya was planning to kill Petyr. There was a part of her that wanted to hug her for it, wanted to tell Arya everything that she had learned about him – not just Aunt Lysa, but everything else. But she knew she must hold back.

“Arya, I know what you’re thinking, and I want you to promise me not to harm him. If you kill Petyr, the Southrons will have all the reason they need to take your head.”

“So this is about protecting me?” Arya scoffed.

“Arya this is no laughing matter. If Petyr dies whilst you remain here, no evidence will be needed. Please. I need you. I’m not happy about it, but I do. You can’t serve Jon either if you are on the run from the headsman the rest of your life. Swear to me.”

“Like you swore allegiance to our brother?”

“Half-brother. For that matter, Jon and I took the North back _together_.” Sansa knew that would sting, and she regretted saying it immediately.

“Robb left the North to Jon, and the Old Gods mean for him to have it,” Arya hissed.

“How on earth can you know what the Old Gods want? Anyway, I’ve accepted the Lord of Light…haven’t you heard?”

“Does Rh’llor give you the power to do things no human has ever been able to do?”

“What are you talking about? Look, I understand you are loyal to Jon. I won’t punish you for it…I could, but I won’t.”

“You could try you mean. You’d never catch me and neither would the Southrons you’re so afraid of.”

“Oh! Nothing changes!” Sansa stood and began to pace furiously. “So stubborn…I could just slap you.”

“Ha! You’d never manage it.”

“I could so.”

“Come here then and do it…try striking me if you dare.”

Sansa couldn’t believe it, but Arya was serious. She realized that her little sister was still angry…still resented her for all the times Sansa and her maids had teased her, calling her “Arya Horseface” and sticking their tongues out at her. Sansa huffed and marched over to face her. She hesitated a moment and then swung, but Arya’s hand caught hers before it landed and just as quickly, the other hand smacked Sansa’s cheek. Sansa gasped, affronted, ready to call Shad in to take her insolent sister to the dungeons. She placed her fingers upon the slapped cheek just as they heard a loud knock. It was Jeyne Poole, wanting to dress her and do her hair before it got too late.

“I’ll go then,” Sansa said, and seeing Arya’s head was turned to the kitchen door, she quickly swung and slapped her cheek good before dashing away.[2] On the way out the door, Sansa looked at her sister, who wore a half-smile of surprised amusement. It occurred to her that the game they had just played was a pact – the sort of pact only the Stark sisters could comprehend. It also occurred to her that Shad would never get Arya into the dungeons anyway.

“Thank you for your help, your grace,” Arya said.

“And what we discussed?”

“All right. I won’t cut the lemons too thick. For now.”

That night, Sansa waited for Harrold on their bed wearing only one of the first gifts he had even given her: a necklace of white and blue pearls with a sapphire pendant. The stone glistened between her breasts in the light of the braziers, which cast an alluring shadow of her body against the walls. Harrold smiled with boyish excitement, as he never failed to do when she offered herself to him, and tore off his clothes so quickly that he nearly fell down. He was drunk as usual, but not too far gone that his arousal wasn’t immediate – his member standing up as stiff and tall as a sentinel pine. He climbed onto the bed with her, and Sansa felt the firmness of his belly and chest with her fingers for what might be the last time. He was beautiful – that she had to give him. She ran a finger along the divot that ran from his hip to his pubic area and sighed. Petyr’s body was well-made, but he didn’t have one of those. He didn’t have Harrold’s eyes like a summer’s evening sky, or his dimples. Harrold reached up to remove his crown, but Sansa told him to leave it on. When he took her, she ran her fingers through his hair and felt its cold metal and glass. He breathed words of love into her ear and caressed her breasts and her thighs. After he came, he told her that he had been praying every night that he would leave her with a child.

“My greatest wish is that when you return to Riverrun to be with me again, that you will have my son in your arms…”

“I pray that too,” Sansa lied, and began to weep bitterly. She buried her face in his shoulder, and as he held her tight, Harrold too began to cry softly.

“How will I live without you, my love, my darling…” he said.

Sansa heard Euron’s hand mirror mocking them, and she cried harder. _Shut up, shut up, shut up…_

The next day he left along with Arya, Gendry, Mya, the Vance sisters, Thoros and Lothor Brune. It felt to Sansa as if a thorn had been removed from her belly… the relief of an open wound: Petyr alive and well and waving farewell beside her as the retinue rode away toward the Kings Road. The snow began to fall lightly at first, dancing around their heads and lighting softly on her eyelashes. As time went on it picked up, big white flakes swirling in the wind and turning the castle into a dream of white, piling high upon the ramparts and woodpiles and carts. Soon the courtyard was empty as the folk of Winterfell and Winter Town went home to stoke their fires and hunker down for a blizzard.

The rest of the day seemed to pass somewhere above Sansa’s consciousness. She was only vaguely aware of Jeyne Poole stirring embers in the hearth, of Randa unbraiding and brushing her hair, little Eleanor Mooten filing her fingernails. When she found herself alone in the kitchen, mixing the contents of Arya’s bottle into a cup of hot mulled wine, she didn’t remember how she’d gotten there. There was just a faint awareness of dust on the bottle, and the tinkling of the spoon against the side of the cup. A stickiness of leftover lemon cakes in a pile like a pyramid on the tray. Petyr awaited her in the new lord’s chambers that had been made up for Bran before young Griff took him to hostage. How long ago that seemed.

“My love…” Petyr said when Sansa entered. He sprang from where he sat at the desk he had made for himself, but Sansa dodged him before he could take the tray. She set it down on the desk herself, and handed him the warm cup, fragrant steam billowing. He inhaled the scent of clove and cinnamon, but did not drink, choosing to kiss Sansa warmly on the mouth instead. He smelled of the oil he used to part his hair – some extract from some Eastern flower that always made Sansa think of King’s Landing. A peppery, golden-red smell. Sansa breathed it in and locked it in her memory as she caressed his lips with hers. Petyr gently pulled back and looked her in the eyes.

“Something’s wrong…I can see it,” he said. “What has you upset, my queen, on the joyous occasion of your freedom?”

“I can’t hide anything from you, can I? You are always one step ahead…” Sansa took her cup of wine and wrapped her hands around it to warm them. The cold had crept into every part of her. She wondered if she would ever be warm again.

“Tell me what’s troubling you. You know I’m never satisfied when you’re unhappy. Sit with me, and we’ll talk about it.” He smelled his cup and took a seat at his desk again.

Sansa sat across from him, setting her cup in her lap. Some flecks of clove and anise floated on the top of the wine. She dipped a finger in as if to hold them under until they drowned. “Harrold spoke last night of us having a child.”

“Ah…I see,” Petyr said, sighing and fondling the sides of his cup. “I knew this time would come. My queen wishes to become a mother…”

“Well, why not? I am a queen, and giving birth to an heir is part of my duty, is it not? You keep saying that we will be together soon, but how? And don’t tell me to be patient. If you mean to have my husband murdered, I want to know.”

“My dearest love, if I hide my plans from you, that is for your own protection. You can’t be guilty of that which you aren’t aware.” He sipped the wine gingerly, as it was still scalding hot. “Suffice it to say that with Harrold gone you’ll be free to take whatever is left when chaos settles back into order. It’s true that matters haven’t progressed as I thought. But believe me, when Jon Snow travels East to meet the Dragon Queen, the pieces will be back on the board again, just where they were when Jon Arryn died.”

“When you killed him, you mean.” Sansa sipped the wine, cinnamon burning her nostrils. It made her want to gag.

Petyr smiled and nodded, taking a sip himself. “You see? You aren’t so far behind me. So tell me, my love…what do you think will happen when Jon goes overseas?”

Sansa tried to drink more of her wine, but could only pretend to. “I can’t predict the future, Petyr.”

“Think, love. Think. This ongoing partnership between Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen is the key to the door that Varys tried to shut with his young prince. I’ve heard gossip, as you have I’m sure, that the Dragon Queen is quite beautiful. Daenerys is young and unmarried…”[3]

“What does that have to do with anything? _When will you and I be married_ , Petyr, when?”

“When Harrold is gone, you and I will make our move. When the wildling princess is gone, the Targaryen princess can make hers…”

“No…no! Petyr Baelish, if you do anything to harm that little baby, I swear…”

“I know you love your family, sweet queen. I swear no harm will come to another Stark. At any rate, by the time Rickon is of age, you will have established a dynasty with you as its matriarch. There will be plenty to go around. You can save your sister from the block. Arrange to care for Bran…”

“What about Jon? He’s a Stark to us, and to many in the North. Tell me you haven’t arranged to murder him.”

Petyr took a long drink of the wine that had cooled some. “By no means! Killing Jon would be counterintuitive. Who will the North rally behind? A trueborn daughter of Catelyn and Eddard Stark born here at Winterfell? Or a bastard born in the South to no one knows who? [4] More importantly, who will Daenerys want in her bed? A unseasoned green boy playing at king, who loves another, and whose pedigree bears no record? Or a proven warrior with the power to control beasts, just like she has?”

Petyr rose and went to stand before the hearth, taking his cup with him. “Daenerys has much in common with Jon – more than you know. This preoccupation with rescuing the world will be their rise and fall. The White Walkers and Euron Greyjoy deserve a powerful match. Jon and Daenerys may win the war, but Euron’s plans…” Petyr took a long swig of the wine and smacked his lips. “A glorious death awaits all heroes, make no mistake. Jon wouldn’t have it any other way…you know that…”

Sansa turned in her chair and stared through wet eyes at Petyr. “My father wanted to rescue people too. His death was anything but glorious, won’t you agree?”

Petyr began to crack the smile that usually came to his lips when he was thinking something clever, but just as quickly it faded. His brow wrinkled, and the color drained from his face. Suddenly, a loud gurgling noise came from his stomach. Petyr placed his hand on his belly and moaned. The cup fell from his hand, and in the same moment he gave Sansa a look of shocked betrayal so cold it made her shiver. Sansa stood.

“I know what you did, Petyr…”

Tears leapt to Sansa’s eyes as Petyr groaned and vomited a stream of foamy purple onto the floor. Tears of Lys worked more quickly than Sansa had anticipated.

“The bottle…” Petyr croaked. “You _bitch_ …”

“What have you planned for Val, Petyr? What have you done to Jon’s wife?” Sansa demanded.

Petyr crumpled to the floor, moaning and retching. _“You don’t know who he is…he…”_

“Who?” Then Sansa felt a cold prickle cover her body. _It can’t be…but then, why not?_ “Euron? Does Euron talk to you? What did he tell you?”

In a burst of sudden strength, Petyr lunged at her. She screamed as he clutched at her throat as if to strangle her, but his grasp immediately became weak, and he collapsed. Sansa held him up just enough to lower him gently into the chair. She wept bitterly as he began to spasm, emitting a rasping sound from his throat. She took a napkin from the tray and wiped a stream of red foam that trickled from the corner of his mouth. Then she took a lemon cake from the tray and nibbled it as Petyr twitched one final time and was gone.[5]

The snow was nearly a foot high when Podrick, Randa and Sansa carried Petyr Baelish’s body, wrapped in a tarp of thin linen, to the edge of the ravine and rolled it in. Pod’s horse was confused about the load he carried and whinnied in protest as they led him through the dark to the edge of the Wolfswood to dispose of the body. The queen and her lady’s maid had dressed themselves to look more like Arya and Mya, who were long gone by now, but always did dress more appropriately for a trek in the snow late at night. The body disappeared into the gray-white nothing of the gulch where, many yards below, a muddy stream was now seized by ice. Only spring, if and when it came, would see the remains of Petyr Baelish. Sansa tried not to imagine what animal might find it first.

“Best…best get back your grace, my lady,” Podrick said when Sansa and Randa had been standing there for a moment. “This snow will make us lose our way.”

[1] Benioff, David and D.B. Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 4: “The Spoils of War,” HBO, 2017.

[2] Hess, Jared. _Napoleon Dynamite_ , Fox Searchlight, 2004.

[3] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 7, Episode 7: “The Dragon and the Wolf,” HBO, 2017.

[4] Benioff & Weiss. _Game of Thrones_ , Season 6, Episode 10: “The Winds of Winter,” HBO, 2016.

[5] Garris, Mick. _Psycho IV: The Beginning_ , Smart Money Productions, Universal Television, 1990.

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.


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